


paint me like one of your french girls

by comfortcharacters



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, First Kiss, Fluff and Humor, Getting Together, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Painting, artist sakusa and live model atsumu, author is not an artist and apologizes in advance, gratuitous use of paint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-23
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-13 10:01:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29649660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/comfortcharacters/pseuds/comfortcharacters
Summary: “I think ya missed a spot there, Omi-kun,” Atsumu says, smiling wickedly, towel resting lowly on his hips as he gets closer and closer to Kiyoomi. Kiyoomi, who is draped almost too-casually against the side of his easel, hand flexing against the paintbrush that he never set down. Kiyoomi, who burns so brightly in Atsumu’s presence, always waiting for his next move.(or, sakusa is an artist who's started to lose his spark. atsumu is a figure-drawing model who burns enough for two.they can't resist.)
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 4
Kudos: 75
Collections: SakuAtsu Fluff Week 2021





	paint me like one of your french girls

**Author's Note:**

> written for SakuAtsu Fluff Week 2021, Day 9: alternate careers & "you're staring"
> 
> &
> 
> because I've seen a lot of live model sakusa but what if... live model atsumu. yes

Sakusa Kiyoomi isn’t in the habit of dealing with hyperactive people.

“Sakusa!” a cheerful voice calls out, bounding over to him in excruciatingly bright yellow and green attire.

He makes one exception.

“Komori,” he greets, pulling out the chair at the table he reserved for them. Komori leans over the side of the table, heaving and catching his breath after running to meet Kiyoomi for their weekly lunch catch-up.

Kiyoomi’s cousin is a graduate student at the local university. Between thesis work and teaching classes, he barely gets a moment’s break. Komori tells Kiyoomi all about it during their meetups – he knows by now that his cousin prefers to listen, and he’s never short on stories about his department’s incompetence, their difficulties getting funded, and _god, Kiyoomi, this shit never gets easier, but we’re both doing what we love, right?_

Komori also uses their meetups to be a _thief,_ stealing a fry from the edge of Kiyoomi’s plate, undeterred by the scowl he gets in response. He’s unfazed. Kiyoomi thinks he’ll need to perfect a better angry face.

“So, what’s new with you this week?”  
  
“Working on commissions. You know, same old.”

“You ever get tired of those?”  
  
“They pay the bills, Motoya.”  
  
“You know what I mean! When’s the last time you did, like, a creative thing, or something?”

Komori is _painfully_ science-oriented.

“A creative thing. Or something.”

“Like a project for fun! It’ll be good for you.” Komori frowns at him, pretending to pinch his cheeks from a distance. “You’re getting older every second.”

“That’s called aging, Motoya. We all do that.”

Kiyoomi’s nice enough not to point out Komori’s absolutely horrendous dark circles. If he buys him concealer for the holidays, then that’s just a friendly gesture.

“No, okay, you gotta learn to lighten up a little. Commissions are great, but do something _different._ Paint people, events. I don’t know, paint a bush or something. It doesn’t always have to be shapes.”

“They’re not just _shapes._ I happen to _like_ geometric art.”

“Tell you what,” Komori says, pulling out a notepad from his backpack, and Kiyoomi groans, “the community college does figure-drawing sessions. I think they hire live models, too. You could give it a shot.”

“I could also just ignore you.”

“Come on, Kiyoomi,” Komori says, waggling his eyebrows, “you might just find yourself a muse.”

Kiyoomi stares at him incredulously.

“Okay. Maybe not. But try it out,” Komori says, leaning back in his chair and smirking, “trust me.”

He nearly falls over twice. Kiyoomi has his doubts.

He does pin the address for the class under a “ _saved for later_ ” tab.

_________________________

Kiyoomi never thought he was weak to pressure, but a week of staring at the address in his phone is enough to tempt him. Why not give it a shot?

_________________________

There are _so_ many reasons not to give it a shot.

The trains were packed, rush hour taking its title very seriously, and it took all of Kiyoomi’s willpower not to get out and walk the mile to the arts center on campus. Kiyoomi _then_ had to make his way through crowded hallways full of undergraduates, all too eager to stand around and talk when Kiyoomi had places to be. He was nearly hyperventilating by the time he made it to the small classroom.

It’s off to a great start.

Thankfully, Kiyoomi makes it to the class exactly five minutes before the start, lurking in the back as everyone finds their seats. He’s relieved to notice that the class itself only has a few people – it makes it easier to take the seat farthest from the others, perched right against the window. He fiddles with the paintbrushes and supplies he brought as the instructor claps her hands to get everyone’s attention.

He can’t help but fidget as the instructor introduces herself, and his thoughts quickly wander off. He’s honestly dreading the whole experience before it even started.

After all, Kiyoomi’s tried figure drawing before. He hated it. There was nothing appealing to him, in any way, about charcoal imprinting messily on his skin, nothing pleasant about sitting for hours and sketching whatever sweaty body was spread out in front of him. He hated doing art in front of people in general – he didn’t need his mask pulling against the side of his face while he was trying to perfect proportions on the easel.

He worked alone. He worked with abstract forms, with geometric lines, rigid and defined and thought to be predictable – all until Kiyoomi put his spin on them.

“Anyway!” the instructor says, punctuating with a thunderous clap that nearly makes Kiyoomi jump out of his seat, “Enough from me! Let’s get started and bring out our model for today.”

The instructor steps back, beckons someone over from the shadows, and the live model comes out.

Kiyoomi is rarely rendered speechless. But _holy shit_.

Whoever is standing in front of him must be an angel. There’s frankly no other explanation.

Kiyoomi decided to take the late afternoon class, hating nothing more than sketching in the dark, so the first glimpses of the sunset are shining through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the classroom. It makes the model’s skin glisten, smooth and sunkissed, bathed reverently in golden hour. Sunlight bounces off his hair to almost form a halo around his head – and when he laughs alongside the instructor, the force of his smile magnifies the effect tenfold.

Kiyoomi is mesmerized.

The model’s eyes roam impassively around the room before pausing, looking intently in Kiyoomi’s general direction.

Kiyoomi didn’t expect it, but he refuses to look away. He’s always liked a challenge.

The model cocks his head, almost assessing Kiyoomi before taking his seat on the provided stool. Kiyoomi lets his gaze linger on the model’s body, artist’s brain taking over as he carefully catalogues every feature for his sketch, starting from his calves and traveling slowly upward before reaching his face. One of the model’s eyebrows shoots up, he smirks, and Kiyoomi clenches his jaw to keep from blushing.

God, the fucker is _smug._ Kiyoomi hates that in a man.

He can’t look away. He just can’t look away.

The model drops his towel, never breaking eye contact with Kiyoomi. _Fuck._

“Okay, class, begin!”

_____________________________

Kiyoomi’s packing up a full hour later when he feels a presence at his side. The model – now clothed, which does wonders for Kiyoomi’s ability to hold himself together – is almost next to him, leaning against the wall.

“Hey. What’s your name?”

“Sakusa.”

“Your full name.”

Kiyoomi turns around at that, narrowing his eyes. “Why do you need that?”

“’Cause Sakusa-san’s a mouthful,” the model says, smiling wickedly back at him, “but I’m gettin’ kinda tired of calling ya hot stuff in my head.”

Kiyoomi barely has time to roll his eyes and prepare a retort when the model looks over at his easel and whistles.

“Shit, Sakusa-san, you’re _good_.”

Kiyoomi doesn’t blush. He doesn’t.

“Thank you. I’ve been doing it for a while.”

“Ya do this professionally or somethin’?”

Kiyoomi thinks back on the dozen or so commissions he’s finishing up (read: somewhat avoiding) this month. “Something like that.”

“Well, count me impressed,” the model says, smiling softly at Kiyoomi this time.

_Fuck._

“I’m Miya. Miya Atsumu. Figured I should introduce myself if we’re gonna be seein’ a lot of each other in class.”

Kiyoomi knew there were other newbies in the class, and that all of them looked eager to return. He noticed that Atsu— _Miya_ didn’t introduce himself to any of them.

“That’s kind of you, but I’m kind of swamped at work. Not sure when, or if, I’ll be back.”

Miya looks a bit dejected at that, but brightens back – albeit a bit more dimly – within a moment.

“Suit yourself, Sakusa-san. I’ll see ya around.”

“… Kiyoomi, by the way. My name is Sakusa Kiyoomi.”

Miya glances back up at Kiyoomi with a sparkle in his eyes. He looks positively delighted.

“Omi-kun, then. I’ll be waiting.”

At that, Miya’s eyes flash teasingly and dangerously, and Kiyoomi realizes he made a _horrible_ mistake.

Kiyoomi shoves everything into his bag and does his best to leave calmly, even as his heart beats haphazardly in his chest.

Why did he let _Atsumu_ give him a nickname? Why did he flirt back when he could’ve just ended it then and there?

Why couldn’t he look away?

He doesn’t think he can handle another hour of staring at Atsumu, especially knowing that Atsumu is a _flirt_ who also _flirts with Kiyoomi_ and somehow looks even prettier when he isn’t posing, when he’s just leaning casually against the wall, loose shirt and loose demeanor, complimenting an artist without a care for the way it makes him lose his mind.

Kiyoomi swears he’ll never come back.

_______________________________

Kiyoomi comes back.

He keeps coming back, again and again, spending hours learning everything there is to see about the model in front of him. He comes back until his life begins to transform, until projects and commissions become nothing but a roadblock before his daily evening figure-drawing slots.

Kiyoomi doesn’t know what happened to him, but he sketches like a man possessed.

He captures every ripple of Atsumu’s biceps, his abs, his _thighs,_ every pull of his body as he contorts elegantly into new positions. Even while he’s sitting still, letting his body become immortalized, he’s thrumming with excitement. His energy radiates off his body in waves until all of Kiyoomi’s renderings of him are infused with endless streams of motion.

Kiyoomi’s never felt so alive.

But sometimes Atsumu just becomes an insufferable _bastard,_ usually towards the end of class, when he needs to stretch and can’t help but do it in the most flagrant, the most obnoxious way possible. He’ll stretch his arms (his _triceps_ ) over his head to twist his shoulder, or twist his body (his _back, oh, god, his back_ ) to feel less stiff, or even—

“Cramps! Sorry ‘bout that,” Atsumu says, massaging his inner thigh (his _inner thigh_ ) and smiling innocently at the art instructor while she fusses over him, telling him to take his time. And Kiyoomi would believe him, would believe that nothing but a cramp got him to stop, just like all the other times were _just a cramp_ or _just a stretch_ — except for the way that Atsumu smirks lopsidedly, rolls his neck, and runs his hands slowly over his thighs as soon as he knows that Kiyoomi is looking.

Kiyoomi stares at Atsumu unabashedly, running his eyes over every dip in Atsumu’s body, since that’s what he’s here for, right?

Every time, Atsumu smirks, expecting Kiyoomi to never look away.

But every time, Kiyoomi notes with pride that Atsumu is staring at him, too.

He really just can’t help but notice the way that Atsumu always seems to line up his body directly in Kiyoomi’s line of sight, despite the twenty-odd students scattered around the classroom at any given time. He can’t help but pride himself on the way that Atsumu flickers his eyes around the space, sending a flirty smile to any of the regulars, before always, _always_ returning his eyes to Kiyoomi’s.

And Kiyoomi, try as he might, is always waiting.

_______________________________

Kiyoomi gets tired of waiting.

Days bleed into weeks and into months, and Kiyoomi notes with some degree of surprise that he’s spent more time drawing Atsumu than anything else.

Maybe he’s devoted to his art. Maybe he’s chasing the adrenaline high of feeling inspired, _really_ inspired, after almost losing his creative spark. Maybe he’s just something of a masochist.

But something compels him to approach Atsumu after class and ask him if he’d like to come back to his studio apartment for a modeling session.

Atsumu agrees without a second thought.

_______________________________

Kiyoomi should’ve had second thoughts.

If he thought Atsumu was a sight in the harsh lighting of a college classroom, he was absolutely unprepared for the Atsumu standing before him now. The Atsumu who is _much_ too comfortable in a new environment: shirt falling off his shoulder as he strips his pants without a care; the loose fabric barely covering the waistband of his boxers as he bends down; cockiness in every move as he sits on Kiyoomi’s only chair, smirking like he belongs there.

Kiyoomi’s never wanted him more. And so, he draws.

_______________________________

Minutes pass. Hours fly. Kiyoomi’s wrist starts to ache.

It’s not enough. It’s never enough.

Somehow, paint splatters on his face, and Atsumu laughs. Kiyoomi is too far gone to care.

Atsumu approaches him, coming straight from the shower he took while Kiyoomi finished final touches before finally leaning back to assess his work. It isn’t even until Atsumu’s halfway across the room that Kiyoomi remembers: he must look like a wreck.

“I think ya missed a spot there, Omi-kun,” Atsumu says, smiling wickedly, towel resting lowly on his hips as he gets closer and closer to Kiyoomi. Kiyoomi, who is draped almost too-casually against the side of his easel, hand flexing against the paintbrush that he never set down. Kiyoomi, who burns so brightly in Atsumu’s presence, always waiting for his next move.

Atsumu takes one of the spare, unused paintbrushes lying by Kiyoomi’s palette, peels off its protective wrapping, and drags it across a dollop of unused red paint. He brings the paintbrush closer to Kiyoomi’s face and watches him with an unreadable expression. Atsumu’s eyes flash with the barely concealed need to _touch_ as he hovers next to him, always waiting for a signal, never breaking the boundary alone.

If he had the mental space for it, Kiyoomi would almost say he’s moved.

“I _dare_ you, Miya,” Kiyoomi breathes out, and that’s all the goading Atsumu ever needed before smearing the paint along Kiyoomi’s face, gently highlighting the curve of his jawline and the _infuriatingly_ perfect rise of his cheekbones. He drops the brush unceremoniously before spreading the paint with his hands, staring into Kiyoomi’s eyes before using all ten fingers to rub thoughtless patterns into Kiyoomi’s temples, Kiyoomi’s cheeks, trailing down toward the upticked curve of Kiyoomi’s lips.

Kiyoomi doesn’t know if he’s in his right mind, doesn’t know if he’s been in his right mind since stepping in that classroom all those months ago. He doesn’t know at what point he descended into madness, at what point he abandoned all rational thought, all the principles he carefully abided by, in favor of letting Atsumu do anything he wanted to him.

He doesn’t know at what point he stopped caring.

He lets out a shaky exhale as Atsumu continues his own attempt at artistry, barely registering the droplets running down the side of his face, curving around his neck, disappearing under his pristine clothes growing dirtier by the second.

Atsumu, on the other hand, is watching the cascading paint intently, tearing his eyes away from Kiyoomi’s to watch his work in awe. Kiyoomi wants Atsumu to be watching him instead.

He places his hands over Atsumu’s, covering them against his cheeks before dragging them away, smearing his own hands in the process. Atsumu looks up at him, confused, and attempts to guide his fingers against Kiyoomi’s in a feeble attempt at holding hands.

“Atsumu,” Kiyoomi warns, even as Atsumu faintly blushes at the sound of his own name falling from Kiyoomi’s lips. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

“Oh, trust me, _Kiyoomi,_ ” Atsumu whispers, leaning his head forward until his lips brush against Kiyoomi’s ear, making him shiver against his will. Kiyoomi curses himself for not realizing just how easily Atsumu could use his own name against him, too. “I never do _anythin’_ I don’t want to.”

He lets a kiss linger against Kiyoomi’s cheek.

“And I had a pretty good feelin’ you wanted me, too,” he says, before biting gently on Kiyoomi’s earlobe and making Kiyoomi whimper in response.

“But I knew that months ago,” Atsumu continues, trailing his lips downward, almost brushing against the paint tracks, “when you first stepped in the class and couldn’t stop starin’ at me.”

“Isn’t that my job? You know, as a student?” Kiyoomi manages to reply, even as he grows breathless, even as his pants grow tighter with every second that Atsumu spends with his nose against his hair, against his cheek, making its way down to the side of his neck where Atsumu breathes in deeply.

“You weren’t starin’ like any of the others were,” Atsumu says, pausing and clenching his hands against Kiyoomi’s, maneuvering them gently until they were between them, laying directly over Atsumu’s chest. Kiyoomi can feel his heartbeat racing.

“And I only wanted to look back at you.”

Kiyoomi groans, drops Atsumu’s hands, and wraps his hands around the back of his neck, pulling him in until their lips _finally_ met, somewhere in the middle and _never_ close enough. And Kiyoomi probably would’ve registered mental fireworks, explosions, a sheer onslaught of neural impulses firing haywire in his mind if his brain weren’t too busy trying to make sense of the absolutely unearthly way that Atsumu’s mouth works against his.

God, he’s waited _months_ for this.

Kiyoomi’s a wreck, he’s a goner as he maneuvers Atsumu back against the wall, rutting up against him desperately as Atsumu moans against his lips. Atsumu is _heavenly_ like this, as Kiyoomi threads his hands through his hair and tugs gently, as his mouth falls open pliantly, as their whimpers echo through the small apartment while they’re nestled in their corner.

He latches on to Atsumu’s neck, leaving a trail of open-mouthed kisses everywhere he goes, and Atsumu is gasping, losing his bearings at the friction from the towel, from Kiyoomi’s _stupid clothes_ , from the layers standing in his way.

Kiyoomi drops to his knees before Atsumu can tug his shirt off.

“Let me make you feel good, Atsumu,” he murmurs, just as Atsumu’s eyes latch on to Kiyoomi in disbelief, as his hands find purchase in his curls, as his mouth drops open in a silent scream when Kiyoomi starts ruining him oh-so-sweetly.

They don’t really talk much, after that.

_______________________________

But they probably _should_ talk now, considering how far gone Kiyoomi is, and how he’d probably propose to Atsumu if given the chance.

And as Kiyoomi stares at Atsumu in his afterglow, looking more beautiful than he ever thought possible, he loses any shred of dignity that he might’ve hidden away.

“Uh. Hey, Miya,” Kiyoomi starts, before Atsumu levels the most indignant look in his direction.

“Oh, we’re back to _Miya_ now? Was it ‘Miya’ when you slammed me against the wall over there?”

“Come on—”

“Or was it ‘Miya’ when ya begged me on your _knees_ for more _—”_

“I didn’t do _that_ —"

“Didn’t sound like ‘Miya’ when ya had my dick in your mouth—”  
  
“ _Atsumu_.”

Atsumu stops his rambling, looking up at Kiyoomi with a contented smile.

“Yes, _Kiyoomi?_ ”

“Do you want to get dinner with me?”

“… Dinner?”

“Yes.”

“Like, a date?”  
  
“What else could dinner mean?”  
  
“Um,” Atsumu replies, eloquent as always, “I don’t know. Bros gettin’ food?”

“Atsumu. I had your _dick_ in my _mouth_ a few minutes ago.”

“God, Omi, it’s so much ruder when ya say it!”

“So, is that a yes?”

“Omi-kun, if ya keep sayin’ all that sappy shit, I’m not sure I’ll be able to resist ya in class.”

“You seem to be doing a piss-poor job of it already.”

“Hey!”  
  
“Am I wrong?”

“I won’t dignify ya with an answer,” Atsumu says, resting his head against Kiyoomi’s shoulder and turning his face to rest in the crook of his neck. “But I will take ya up on that date.”

Kiyoomi feels some tension leave his shoulders, finally resting his head against Atsumu’s and relaxing in his hold.

“Good.”

“Do I get to pick the place?”

“No.”

“What! Why not?”

Atsumu looks betrayed.

“I don’t trust your taste.”

Kiyoomi kisses his nose. Atsumu’s cute like this. Atsumu just looks horrified.

“I’ll prove it to ya, Omi. I’m pullin’ out all the stops for our second date.”

“We haven’t gone on our first date yet.”

“Have some faith, will ya?”

Kiyoomi will.

With Atsumu in his arms, moonlight resting on Atsumu just right, laying with him in the mess of their creation, he finally has a reason to.

**Author's Note:**

> this was... originally going to be E rated but i couldn't do it... I'll cross that bridge one day but not today. today you get humor 
> 
> find me on [twt!](https://twitter.com/comfrtcharacter)


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